


a patient wolf

by egare



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Deviation from Canon cause y’know what Canon is Boring Sometimes, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2018-12-31 23:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12143193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egare/pseuds/egare
Summary: He is ten years old when he is thrown to the wolves, cast out of clan Arohalaan and forced to survive the wild long enough to find another clan that would shelter him. The Keeper screams that he is a curse upon them, that they do not need the Dread Wolf's gaze on their camp, they do not need the rebel god's protection.





	1. Chapter 1

He is ten years old when he is thrown to the wolves, cast out of clan Arohalaan and forced to survive the wild long enough to find another clan that would shelter him. The Keeper screams that he is a curse upon them, that they do not need the Dread Wolf's gaze on their camp, they do not need the rebel god's protection.

She screams this because when he is ten years old, the name Fen'Harel appears on the right side of his neck, where it began to turn to shoulder as a flourished script decorates his skin. The Keeper takes this as proof that the gods still exist and are out there, and is thankful enough for that that she gives him a bandage before kicking him out, strengthening his chances of getting by in a different clan or alienage.

The latter comes first, two weeks after living off the wild. There is an alienage in Orlais that accepts him, one more mouth added to the overpopulated wing that is hidden from shemlen view. An older man takes pity on him, taking him under his wing and asking his name.

He almost replies Aronhalaan, for when adults ask his name he is usually lost and his clan name helps him get home. But he pauses, not naive enough to think he is going home, and replies.

Mahanon enters an Orlesian alienage at the tender age of ten, a bandage around his neck and the hand of the eldest elf there on his shoulder. He is guided by Rahnil in the ways of Orlesian elves, told the respect he was meant to show humans, as well as how to spit in their faces and have them thank you for it. The elves are as much a part of The Game as the humans are, he tells him, they can only succeed if they understand their role.

It's a rather pessimistic view, in Mahanon's eyes, but the bandaged boy does as he is told, learning how to read and write and then learning how to pretend he can't do such things, learning how to cook and clean and learning how to be no better than any other elves at it- if he succeeds, he gets unwanted eyes. Unwanted eyes bring slavers.

He is eleven years old when he sees his first slaver, a middle aged man with dark skin and dark hair that is being dragged through the alienage by four elves, pulled around on his knees and occasionally stopped so that others can humiliate him further.

"Do not feel pity for them, Mahanon," Rahnil tells him, eyes staying on the human as stones are thrown, as the other elves jeer and shout at him. "They deserve no less."

He is twelve years old when Renhil and he have enough money to get a stall in the marketplace, and is set to work at attracting customers and haggling. Men think him dumb, only a child as he offers merely double the price of something's worth rather than triple like the other stalls. Women think him adorable, a child trying to get by in the world, and pay the outlandish prices because they think he deserves it, and what are a few extra sovereigns out of their daddy's pockets, anyways?

He is thirteen when life starts to fall into a rhythm. He enjoys it, enjoys the simplicity of it all. Except for the occasional ambitious Templar recruit, the alienage is quiet, falling into a pace that is not too slow but not too fast. There are days when things go wrong, but for the next five years of his life, such days do not hinder him.

He is nineteen years old when a stranger passes through the marketplace, soft-stepped and quiet. The elf makes a shiver run up Mahanon's spine, and he refuses to make eye contact with the one that dared to be so prideful in human territory. He senses power behind the calm façade, and averts his eyes when he feels a studious gaze turn to him. For a moment, he is reminded of the mark on his neck, hidden from view.

The moment is gone, and the elf with it, seconds later.

He is twenty when Rahnil dies, the old man passing peacefully in his sleep. He cannot offer any proper elven rites, but has his prayers and thinks that, perhaps, that is enough. The gods are not unkind to anyone except Mahanon, they would accept the elf that had given everything for a poor child that was not even his.

He is twenty one when Orlais becomes more wary than usual of mages, whispers of an anti-mage movement growing in the corners of marketplaces and towns.

He is twenty two when he has to leave the alienage, templars getting too suspicious of every elf in there, searching for one that looks like Mahanon- he is unable to convince the elves around him that he is not a blood mage, not even a mage at all, but they are kind enough to their own to let him go before the templars come.

He is twenty three when he returns to the Dalish, finding a new clan in Lavellan, bowing his head and refusing the offer by Keeper Deshanna's to receive his vallaslin. A distance away from the camp, hidden in the darkness of the night, he admits to her his hesitance to physically honor the gods, believing himself unworthy as he unwraps his throat and faces judgement.

But the markings of Mythal decorate Keeper Deshanna's face, and she is just as she allows him to stay, with or without vallaslin. In the stillness of the night she places a hand on his shoulder, and asssures him the gods will not mind his prayers and worship. He is reminded of Rahnil, praying for the elf after he slips away in the night, hoping that they ignore his curse long enough to give the kind man the happy afterlife he deserves.

He is twenty four when he lets himself undertake the ritual for his vallaslin, baring himself to his gods, unbandaged, and hoping in the next three days that one of them stands out. He cannot decide for himself, he does not want to in case none of the gods want a cursed elf like him to worship them. Each god visits him over the next three days, as he sits on the highest mountain in Orlais, cross-legged, silent, and naked.

Elgar'nan comes to him in the middle of the day, harsh, accompanied with irony as the thought of scarring his face with the mark of the widower comes to mind. He politely refuses, and the elf storms off, not seen again.

Dirthamen arrives in the stillness of the first night, a whisper in his ears that offers knowledge and a chance to learn. He is reminded of days spent being hit gently, his elbows meant to be off the table, his tongue meant to be quick and sharp. But he cannot agree with the god, and Dirthamen understands, leaving him be.

His second day is silent, Mahanon left to his thoughts, the wind hitting his throat and offering something to focus on as he licks his dried lips and tries to breathe through his nose.

Andruil is a quick thought in the second night, but he cannot be a Hunter while he has the mark of a Wolf.

Falon'Din stays with him for three hours, sitting beside him and reminding him of Ruhnil. He wonders if he could find a reason for life in honoring the dead, and in the quiet of the dawn, gently asks his ancestor to leave, knowing he could not find purpose with him. Falon'Din is not upset as he leaves, disappearing from Mahanon's gaze as he heads down the mountain.

Ghilan'nain never comes to him. He is not worthy enough to guide the halla.

Mythal stays the longest of them all, a gentle hand on his shoulder as Keeper Deshanna comes to him with cup of ram's blood and a plate of its meat, asking if he has come to a decision. He opens his eyes and stands, bare as the day he was born and reborn, and nods before bowing to the Keeper.

She knows his answer, replicates the markings that decorate her own face, an outline in ram's blood before she soaks it into his skin. It hurts, but he believes he deserves it, knowing the pain is repentance for how his heart will eventually betray the Dalish.

He is twenty five when the clan finds out his secret, having been almost killed by slavers. His elders are silent, bandaging the hunter's neck as the Keeper heals him. The children are scared, not knowing what to think of the man that had lied to them for years. Indeed, the entire clan thinks his unwillingness to admit to his soulmate is just proof that he is already corrupted by the Dread Wolf, already trying to turn the Dalish to his side. Keeper Deshanna saves him for three weeks, keeps him away from the rest of the clan, before she asks him to do something. There is a conclave, she explains, and one of the Dalish needs to attend so they know if there are any risks that need to be tracked.

He is twenty six years old when the Conclave explodes, him in it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> use your background ships to move past the obligatory Haven section of every Inquisition fic

He learns two names with each companion he meets.

Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast keeps her name gauntleted and close to her heart. Mahanon sees the way she clasps her chest whenever she is startled, or when she is told to make a choice and needs something to grasp as she tries to decide which group is the easier sacrifice to make. The idea of a soulmate is a comfort, something she can hold when she needs a solid ground to stand on; it reminds her that through all of her bad decisions, as they take the mountain path to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, there will always be someone out there that will love her.

In the quiet of the nights to follow, the dwarven storyteller speaks of a man named Garrett Hawke, and the Seeker once again clasps at an invisible pendant near her chest, lost in thought about the name on her hand.

Said dwarven storyteller, Varric Tethras, admits during a lull in the conversation on their trip out to the Hinterlands that he does not have a soulmark. Cassandra is surprised, having heard him speak often of a woman and assuming, but he is quick to assure her that he is a bachelor both by fate and by choice. He does not seem to mind, but he does hold his crossbow closer to him for the rest of the day.

Commander Cullen Rutherford has the name of a dead woman on his chest. The name Evelyn Trevelyan is written in precisely two places in Haven- one, on the arm of the commander, decorating his skin is a sorry attempt of rushed cursive. The second place is on the paper in front of Cullen, where he reads the list of the dead from the temple, fingers curled in and nails digging into his palms as he tries to calm himself. For the week since the Breach opened, Cullen is unable to use his left arm, a nasty burn replicating the death of the woman that was meant to love every part of him.

Leliana does not bring a name with her to her introduction, but rumors bring tales of the Hero of Ferelden's messy slant of writing decorating her rib.

Solas is quietly closed off yet still quite open with the faded mark behind his ear, a word that once was a name but is now simply a scar, lost to the world. He does not admit what the word once was, admits to ignorance as he had not thought he had a soulmark until he had lost his hair- and by then, he says, it was too late. But he has a pained look as he says it, a guilt in his eyes that only Mahanon seems to pick up on. He is lying, but about what, the newly named Herald has little idea.

Josephine Montilyet has the name of a man around her bicep, shows it to Mahanon when she accidentally walks in on him redressing his throat- she gives the secret of Thom Rainier up to give Mahanon peace of mind, a name for a name, a promise to keep the Herald's name safe. It is more comforting than Mahanon expects it to be.

Sera scowls whenever someone mentions the simple word on her thumb, the deep indentations of five letters that she tends to bite when she is deep in thought or nervous. She curses the idea of soulmates, saying she does not need any gods deciding who she ought to love, but she cannot stop the way her ears perk at the sound of any names that start with D. She is hopeful, whether she wishes to be or not.

Blackwall does not show his name because he "does not wish to make the lady feels forced to be with him," but he admits to Mahanon that he has met her, and he does not feel cheated by the Maker. He feels as if it is quite the opposite- the woman is too lovely for him, and he does not deserve her. Mahanon offers a listening ear as Blackwall works through his attraction with carpentry and longing talks of what his soulmate has done in the past twenty four hours; he refuses to give a name, instead referring to her as the nickname "Yellow."

Vivienne is a strict woman with the simple script of an Orlesian-taught writing decorating her wrist; Bastien de Ghislain's name holds a spot in her heart and on her left wrist, while Nicoline's is on her right, paralleling her husband's. Mahanon asks why Nicoline's last name is the same as Bastien's and she scoffs, as if she expects such a question from a 'savage elf from the forest'. The name one connects to the most at the time of their death is the one that decorates their lover's skin- some couples never meet simply because they were born with a different name than they were to die with.

The Iron Bull does not give up the name of his soulmate when they meet, instead giving the names of his Chargers- platonic soulmates, he calls them, whether fate dictates it or otherwise. The Qun is not against soulmates, per se, but they do not let one ignore their duty just to seek out the owner of the name on the Bull's thigh. It is not until Redcliffe, with Solas, Bull, and Varric in tow, that Mahanon meets Bull's soulmate.

He is rather muscular for a Tevinter, and Mahanon does not deny the appreciative once over he gives the mage before they launch into battle right alongside him. His introduction makes the Iron Bull tense beside the Herald and Mahanon gives him an inquisitive look, silently asking why he did not seem comfortable around the man; he says something about not trusting the pretty ones, but his fingers ghost over his thigh, and Mahanon knows.

It is confirmed when Dorian and Mahanon are cast forward in time, while they waste away hours in hiding with quiet conversation, the Herald explaining his friends and Dorian offering up his soulmark- his shoulder blade, flaunted to the world so that whoever went by the name 'Iron Bull' would know Dorian was searching for and accepted his soulmate.

Mahanon found it curious that Bull would eventually drop the 'The,' but said nothing on it, shoving the conversation away from the topic of fate when Dorian asks to see his own mark. He gives minor protest, ano the Tevinter does not push, suggesting instead that they should continue on.

Cassandra's mark is sliced, unrecognizable, and a crystal red, but she is otherwise unharmed physically; neither she nor Varric say anything about it, as they stumble after the two, prepared for revenge, for a second chance. The scar's mutilation shows how the name's owner dies, and they all know enough about the Champion of Kirkwall to guess how the Seeker's mark got to such a state.  
  
Leliana's scar is mutilated when they come to her, burned and cut by the pain that killed the Hero, not by the torture she has been put through.

Dorian gets manhandled rather affectionately by a Bull who has nothing to lose, by one who has lost so many 'platonic soulmates' that he has decided he needs at least one moment with his romantic one, whether or not the mage was simply a dream. He obliges, letting arms envelope him and pull him close, accepting a silent form of intimacy with a stranger that just felt so _right_.

Solas is silent when they unlock his cell, but he stands close to Mahanon, brushing their hands and shoulders as if he needs the physical confirmation that this is not simply a dream. He rubs his wrist as the group continues on, murmuring to himself in elvish but refusing to translate his whispers.

"It is fake." He admits as they barricade the doors as best as possible, the others moving to get ready to defend the time travelers until the end, and Mahanon is confused for a moment before Solas gestures to his ear. "I was simply hit over the head and it scarred. It... it is not my soulmark."

"Solas-" Mahanon tries to stop him, knowing that if he was not sacrificing himself to save his past self, he would not be admitting such a thing. But Solas pushes on, quieting the herald.

"I have regretted my lie since the moment it left my mouth. You need not confront me on it, but... I just wished for you to know, Mahanon."

The way Solas' lips say his name in goodbye makes the herald's heart twist, and he has to gently be tugged toward the portal as the door slam open and the first line of defense is downed almost immediately.

They return to an unbarricaded room, and Alexius falls to his knees, defeated. Fiona (Maric Theirin decorates the back of her neck, but she shows the mark to no one) accepts the Inquisiton's offer of an alliance, and the mages follow one day behind on the path back to Haven.

It is three days until the mages and the herald are to close the Breach, and spirits are high. The Herald of Andraste has time travelled and knows the future, what can possibly stop him?

It is two days until the mages and the herald are to close the Breach, and they are preparing to move out once more, making final preparations, entertaining the last of the nobles before having to send them away to let the Inquisition actually get to work.

It is one day until the mages and the herald are to close the Breach, and the trek has begun in the evening, as they move out of Haven under the light of the moon for a quick travel. No one would dare attack so many people at once, and the path in the dark is emptied in others' worry and illuminated by the mages' magic and nervousness.

It is the day the mages and the herald close the Breach, and it is anticlimactic. They go back with shaky legs and exhausted smiles, proud of their accomplishment, thankful that it worked.

It has been one day since the mages and the herald closed the Breach, and fire rains from the sky.


	3. Chapter 3

Solas refuses to allow the Inquisition to move on from their tented position in the snowstorm. He pulls Leliana to the side, speaking of how Mahanon is still alive, dreaming in the Fade, hoping she believes him as he unconsciously rubs the mark that hides under his sleeve. It is cold to the touch, radiating its temperature even beneath the sleeve and warning Solas that he has little time before it is simply another scar on his body rather than a mark of fate; but they cannot do anything, not when Haven is collapsed and there is no sighting of green for miles. There are people they have to look out for, there are children in the middle of all this, every advisor continues to repeat about the men and women and children and apparently, Mahanon is not important enough- one little elf that saved the world against all the people that sat idle? Against those that only cried out and complained but did nothing to change their conditions?

Leliana assures him that she will not push for movement, but the other advisors are not the same; they argue with one another, trying to decide what to do and showing the rest of the Inquisition the incapability of their leaders without the herald present. It is not until Cole points out the peoples' concerns- " _They do not know what they are doing, fighting, yelling, confusion and fear and oh Maker, why have you forsaken us_?"- that they at least move their fighting to a tent, spending every waking hour in it.

Solas stays strong, checking his mark every hour, always prepared for the moment he finds out his mistakes have costed him his soulmate.

They move on, despite his soft protests, and he gives in and speaks of Skyhold. He wishes for Mahanon to be here, for the herald to lead them, but he tells Cassandra of his 'travels in the Fade' and the sanctuary nearby. The people are thankful for their new leader as they get to work on cleaning up Skyhold, but Solas does not help, sneaking past the tents of healers and the soldiers that have doubled as construction workers.

He barricades himself in a bedroom off of the library, unwraps his wrist, and studies his mark. It is cold, so cold, but still legible. He cannot help the small exhale of a laugh that leaves as he considers that despite everything, Mahanon is still alive. Looking out to the soldiers on the field, Solas vaguely wonders if perhaps telling the Commander is a possibility. If he tells him everything then Cullen might be sympathetic, may send a few soldiers out....

But the storm is strong, and the people have decided to make the herald a martyr when he is not yet dead.

Varric seems to know more than he lets on as he gives Solas a comforting hand and a drink. They take the corner of the Herald's Rest (a name that makes the apostate wince and hold his mug tighter) and the dwarf distracts him with stories of wonder and tales Solas has already heard but does not mind the sound of. Hours are spent in the comfort of a kindred, conflicted soul, one that has no intention of pressing him for answers or offering only empty prayers. The spirit named Cole joins them for a minute and offers words of wisdom before departing, making the duo lapse into silence as they mull over his statement.

"Alone but not alone, the cold is deadly but he is not the first to make it."

An hour later, they understand.

The guards point their swords at an elf that sways on his feet, yet he still has the energy to pull down his hood and walk through the parting crowd. Recognition spreads throughout the Inquisition as some begin to shout the praise of the Herald of Andraste, how he has returned from the dead, how he found them and is back to guide them to the light. Cassandra does not deny their words as she moves in, forcing the crowd back and calling for healers to prepare as she swoops in to support him, placing his arm around her neck and leading him to the tents. A look of concern flashes on her face and Solas cannot help but agree- Mahanon is paler than before, and if one looks close enough they can see how he puts too much weight on Cassandra. But he cannot follow after immediately, and waits for the crowd to disperse before slipping in to the healer’s tent.

His shirt is bumpy by the time Solas arrives, warm rocks finding a home beneath his tunic as the healers try to get blood to circulate better. A blanket is pulled up to his chest, but his shoulders and face are exposed, the healers needing constant sight to get a read on any feelings of discomfort or changes in breathing. Cassandra murmurs to Sols that he collapsed as soon as he entered the tent, and has not woken since. A hot rag is resting on his forehead, and his chest rises and falls slow enough to concern everyone in the area. But that is not what grabs Solas' attention.

There is a familiar scrawl along the elf's neck, one he had suspicions about but was not truly prepared to see. The title Inquisitor seems a fate set for only a few possibilities in Haven, a sad destiny where their name will be forgotten by their life's end. If he did not know of Cassandra's mark, he would have assumed her to be the future Inquisitor, dedicated and a worthy figure to follow. But the eight letters decorating Mahanon's neck threw any other choices out the window.

_Fen'Harel._

It is to be a depressing fate for both of them, dooming them to be known only by unwanted titles, to be forced into situations where they will distance themselves from their actions so much that they will no longer even feel comfortable with their real names. A terrifying future that is confirmed true by the words decorating his and Mahanon's skin. The Inquisitor and Fen'Harel. Solas has to wonder how interwoven their futures are, as soulmates; he knows enough about Mahanon that he cannot see the herald standing by when Solas tries to go through with his plan. Will they be enemies, perhaps? How long will it take before they have to make the decision to send people after their soulmate?

It will be a cliché worthy of Varric's books, of that Solas has no doubt.

He stays beside the herald as the healers deem him healthy enough to survive and move on to the next injured soldier- Solas silently promises to keep an eye on Mahanon if anything changes, but from what he can tell, the elf is simply sleeping off his injuries and trying to warm up from the cold. So he sits beside his soulmate, a book in his hand, and keeps quiet company as he waits for the herald to return from the Fade.

There are murmurs of Orlesian and Common coming from the resting elf for the next few hours, shifting looks of pain crossing his face as he murmurs incoherently and dreams. Solas places a hand on Mahanon's arm, and he falls still, calm.

It is sixteen hours later that Cassandra comes into the tent, the healers concerned over Solas' extended stay and not wanting a new patient on their hands because of his refusal to take care of himself. The Seeker gives him a disappointed scowl and he relents, bending the corner of his page and getting up. He decides that the sooner he gives in and eats the sooner he can return to Mahanon's side, and he ignores the look of pity Cassandra gives him as he joins her in the half-fixed dining hall. He sits between Dorian and Varric, pulling together the most basic of a meal that would please the Seeker enough to get her off his back.

"I was pretty sure that ‘Love had somehow tied you to the chair in his sleep." The dwarf jokes, giving Solas a slight nudge as the elf pulls food for himself. He rolls his eyes but is not unkind in his reply, breaking a roll in half as he drawls out,

"As I recall, Varric, you are the one with the friend who tied you down when you were too busy to keep him company." Ah, the Champion was a special sort of mage, wasn't he? Solas pauses, before adding, "Did you not say you would have let him do it if he used silk?"

"My my Varric, I think your crossbow might get jealous at that!" Dorian interrupts, joining Solas in ganging up on the dwarf.

"Hey, Bianca is very understanding about my relationship with Hawke." Cassandra scowls when he says that, and he is quick to correct himself, "We are both well aware of who really holds his heart, Seeker, but he can't help it if his eyes stare a bit too longingly at my chest hair every now and then!"

"Who could help themself, with you constantly flaunting it?" Solas muses, receiving a hearty laugh from the dwarf in response. For a few minutes they are joking and ignoring the worries of life. For a moment, there is no dying soulmate, no ancient Magister, no demons or tear or pain. For a moment, everything is... nice.

" _'It is good to see him joking and smiling again. He has been too sad.'_ " Cole's voice breaks through the conversation before Varric can continue with a new story, and the group quiets down, knowing just whose thoughts he is reading and who the thinker is thinking about. They glance over to the boy that now sits across from them, and grimace at the tension that has fallen over the group. Cole does not stay around long to feel it. Dorian looks between Varric and Solas but says nothing, as the latter clears his throat and pushes his plate slightly forward.

"I must return to my duties."

"Chuckles-" Varric begins, before trailing off at the look he receives. He shifts in his seat before rubbing the back of his neck, offering, "There's a game of Wicked Grace tomorrow night. We'll leave a seat for you."

He knows he will not leave the herald's side until Cassandra forces him to once more, but he goes through the actions of someone considering the offer, and gives a shrug. "Perhaps."

Solas leaves behind a dwarf that assures the spirit he did nothing wrong, taking a small bundle of fruits and rolls with him. In no time at all he returns to his seat beside Mahanon's cot. He studies the elf on the bed and wonders, lost in his own thoughts, allowing himself to close his eyes for a few moments. But he does not sleep, no; every sound makes him open his eyes and look for trouble. Who knows what opinions have formed, which healers have spoken of what they have heard. He has to be cautious.

Yet no one interrupts his vigil until well after the sun has set on the second day, the altus from Tevinter being the first as he pokes his head through the ajar door and knocks quietly. The apostate startles from where he is most definitely not sleeping, surprised by Dorian holding a food basket as a peace offering. It works, as Solas does nothing more than glare as he straightens himself up.

"The Commander has offered to take over watch, if you want to join us for the game. Varric is rather adamant that you attend." Dorian says in greeting, smiling, yet Solas notes that the smile does not quite reach his eyes.

"The offer is appreciated, but not necessary. I-"

"Have been sitting at his bedside for well over two days, with only a one hour break." He interrupts, giving an exasperated sigh, "Varric said that if I cannot get you to agree, he will be sending Sera in after me."

The two lapse into silence as Solas considers the alternative to leaving with Dorian, and he gives Mahanon a pained glance, not wanting to go.

"The commander is rather-" He starts to argue, wanting the other man to see reason as he keeps his eyes trained on the herald.

"-happy to have an excuse to not join Wicked Grace, as he is apparently absolutely terrible at it." He interrupts, setting the basket down and coming over to study the sleeping elf. A flash of pity crosses his face as he catches sight of the bandage on Mahanon's neck, and he glances to Solas, eyes full of something that he cannot quite place.

"The healers that helped Mahanon have... not been heard from for the past twenty four hours. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" His tone is casual enough to make Solas cautious, not completely accusatory but not entirely... safe, either.

"Perhaps they are just taking a break." He offers, admitting a lack of knowledge about their whereabouts. Solas has considered the fact that Leliana had them... taken care of, after Mahanon's soulmark was revealed to them, but he does not dwell on it too much. They were elves, if he remembers correctly- he does not wish to be the reason for their unnecessary deaths.

"Perhaps." He does not push for more information. Solas studies him and he studies Solas in return, and a bit of anger flares in the elf's chest as he considers all that he knows about Master Pavus. The fact that he knows so little about him is evident enough that he has to be cautious- he knows that Mahanon and Dorian... connected, as friends, in the alternate future, and that the man from Tevinter has already met and confirmed his soulmate in the Inquisition. With all that information he knows he should not be envious, yet the feeling still remains as he watches the way Dorian looks at the sleeping elf, running fingers through Mahanon’s hair to get the strands out of his closed eyes. Solas’ grip tightens unconsciously at the idea of the bond, platonic or otherwise.

"With a glare like that I am beginning to feel as if I should fear for my life, Solas." He comments casually, and Solas blinks twice before looking away, not having been aware that he was showing any expressions on his face. He shuts it down quickly and clears his throat, offering a few words of false comfort that ensures Dorian he did nothing wrong.

"I was simply in my own thoughts." He clears his throat once more and stands, knowing that he would have to show his face eventually else they send someone less considerate after him. Dorian seems pleased with himself at the development, the movement catching his eye, and he gives a smile and nod as if encouraging a child to walk.

“Nothing better to get out of one’s thoughts than a few tankards of the swill they call alcohol here, eh?” He switches his staff to his right hand and begins to walk alongside Solas, chatting away as they head to the tavern. They nod their greetings to the Commander as he heads in the direction they left from, and Dorian pauses when he sees the way Solas’ eyes follow, lingering on the tent where the Herald slept. He places a hand on the apostate’s shoulders, and he is distracted enough to not tense at the attempt of comfort.

“He will be alright in no time, Solas. Now come, I have heard the Inner Circle can get quite impatient if they are forced to wait too long. Children, all of them!”

Dorian does not get a smile out of him, but he does get Solas moving and socializing once more, and that is all that he can hope for.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: the elves that worked with the healers told EVERYONE what they saw, and bad coping mechanisms

The moon shines high above Skyhold as the Herald of Andraste wakes.

No cries fill the empty air as Mahanon startles back into consciousness, suddenly forced awake from the peace that was once his dreams and thrown into the land of the waking. It is quite the opposite of sudden, and he is quiet, assessing his surroundings as his neck protests every movement and his arms refuse to raise. He lifts himself up despite his body crying for him to do otherwise, and he regrets it immediately; the chill that greets his chest as his blanket falls is uncomfortable enough to send a shiver up his spine. Yet he stays sitting, knowing that he can see little except the top of the tent if he remains down. There is no candle guiding his sight but he does not need one as he looks around, taking note of the most obvious exit and wondering if he can cut out a second one if needed.

A light snore startles him, and he turns.

He looks to his left, giving a soft snort at what he sees. Beside him sits the Commander, arms crossed and back halfway down the chair as he adjusts his position and exhales. Mahanon gives a small huff of laughter before looking around, searching for a shirt. Upon deciding there was not one in the tent, he simply chooses to wrap the blanket around himself and leave. Bare feet touch down onto soft snow and he throws one last glance back at the peaceful commander’s sleeping figure before standing, prepared to leave to search for a healer and proper clothing.

He isn’t prepared for the way he stumbles, almost falling to the ground as his legs finally announce how weak they are, and he half crawls back to the bed. On one hand, he wants information- where he is, how he’s alive, what he’s missed- but he’s hesitant to wake up the commander, not knowing how long it has been since the man has properly slept. The bags under his eyes suggest that it has been much too long since his last moment of peace.

“Look whose decided to join the land of the living.” Mahanon looks toward the entrance flap where a smiling dwarf stands, and returns a tired grin of his own as Varric leads the group to the herald’s bedside. All except the Iron Bull and Cole crowd around him, the Qunari too tall to stand comfortably inside the tent; but even the duo is standing as close as possible, assessing Mahanon’s status. “Gave us quite the scare with that avalanche, kid.”

“Uncle always told me to go out with a bang.” He jokingly defends himself, happy to get a crack of a smile out of a few of them. Mahanon wonders vaguely about the timing of the whole thing, but a perceptive assessment on their stances and falling eyelids suggest that they were heading off to sleep, and simply checking on him before they left for their beds.

Cullen is startled awake by the volume of the crowd, as they gently push Mahanon back to bed, concerned with his legs and him standing up early after so long a time of disuse. Cassandra demands details and Varric interrupts every now and again to explain how he will be adding flair to the tale, the group breaking out into laughter at every mention of “And the Herald of Andraste majestically shook his hair out of his eyes, prepared to continue on with his glorious purpose,” or “The thought of his twelve lovers kept his mind focused on returning to the Inquisition”. In return, Mahanon gets information on what he has missed, missives and nobles and a large group of people that were very excited to see him up and moving.

The group eventually trickles down to two, Cole taking residency on the chair in the tent while Solas stands by his side, quiet.

“Who could have guessed that just sitting and talking could be so tiring?” Mahanon jokes to clear an unknown tension in the air, and Solas grants him a small smile, yet speaks no words. The Herald’s own grin falters for a moment at the lack of response, but he pulls it back up with little difficulty, continuing on,

“My list of duties has probably increased tenfold in my little nap, hasn’t it?”

“Orlais wants to see you, the Empress must be saved, Hawke is four days out, the Wardens have disappeared where are they why has she not sent even one message-“ Cole begins his ramble of what exactly was in store, and is cut off by Mahanon’s chuckles and the shake of his head.

“Sounds about right. Is eating anywhere on that list, Cole?”

There is a pause as the spirit takes his question quite literally, going through the internal lists of his Inner Circle before saying simply, “Yes.” Mahanon figures it is Sera’s top priority, and silently thanks her.

“I say we cross that off first.” He looks to Solas when he says ‘we’, and gives an aggravated groan when the apostate does not say anything in return once more. “Did I break your staff in my sleep or something? Confess my undying love for frilly cakes and embarrass myself in front of all of Haven?”

“It’s Skyhold, actually.” He softly corrects, giving in to the conversation. It makes Mahanon wince at the sudden memories, of snow and fire and hopeless, but he shoved those thoughts away, focusing on the present. Skyhold. The Herald is observant- Solas has to give him that- and he knows when the apostate turns harsh to deflect his own emotions.

“It was not my intention to die, Solas. I just knew what I had to do.”

“You did not have to do anything. Others could have-“ He is interrupted before he can begin his long rant, the one he swore he would not give to the Herald; Mahanon is the victim in this, as much as the perpetrator.

“I was not going to force someone to do something I would not do myself.” He’s quieter, now that the two of them have implicitly agreed to move passed the childish, defiant behavior. His words are softer, not having to cut through a harsh silence. “I was not going to lead a group to their deaths when I had the option to save even one of them.”

They both quiet at his statement, realizing the different levels of importance they hold the Herald’s life at. With a sigh, Solas admits that no, Mahanon would never force someone to do anything he wouldn’t, he was much too kind for that. It is with almost an air of resignation that Solas comes to an understanding and acceptance of Mahanon’s nature, and he gives the tired man a pat on the shoulder, a warm hand against the cold air.

“Sleep, Herald.” Solas murmurs, offering the smallest amount of comfort in a moment of his own weakness.

“I’ve been sleeping for days, it seems.”

He gets a chuckle in response, and Solas watches as he lies down, quiet. It is not a tense quiet, but one of peace, as the two begin to reclaim time lost to the storm.

“A few more days will not hurt. You are safe now,” his hand doesn’t move from the Herald’s arm, “I will see about getting you food. Rest.”

His recovery is a slow process, one leg having developed a limp that Josephine attempts to force out of him as she instructs him on Orlesian etiquette. For a graceful rogue he is a rather clumsy dancer, and the Herald of Andraste must appear as no less than perfect to the court. A terrible burden, one that Mahanon sometimes thinks is worse than the Mark itself as he spends long hours going over insignias and family rivalries and history.

_“The formal charges are apostasy, attempted enslavement, and attempted assassination- on you, my lord.”_

Mahanon becomes the Inquisitor soon after his recovery, named in front of the entirety of Skyhold as Cassandra passes the sword she once received unto him. He says little, but the advisors have that covered, speaking to the crowd themselves and only needing Mahanon to lift the sword and say a few words of gratitude.

_“Inquisitor, meet Hawke, the Champion Of Kirkwall.”_

_“Though I don’t use that title much anymore.”_

The world moves on past the destruction of Haven, Vivienne instructing on customs and traditions and Dorian protesting loudly against the hideous red that Josephine expects them to wear as Cassandra presses for a confirmed list of all who he is bringing with him to Halamshiral and Josephine is back again, wondering why Mahanon hides his soulmark “Isn’t he a god among your people?” and Sera is hesitant to talk to him because Andraste is real, not the ‘Old-ass elves’ and the servants refuse to meet his eyes and he has to get this waltz down and Varric and Bull remind him of the Rifts that are still open all around Ferelden-

It is not a surprise when the Herald is not seen for a day and a half, hiding in his room- the one place everyone seems to forget to check, because of how little time he gets to rest in there. It is not until midday that Mahanon leaves, off to find food and face his duties once more- he figures that he should make himself presentable before being seen by anyone, and slips into the library to get help from a rather sympathetic Dorian. Expectations are something they both have to live with, they realize as the altus fixes his hair and straightens his clothes up to have him looking sharp. If Mahanon could have his way, he would be wearing his pajamas all the time, but that would put half of his circle at risk of death by shock. They trade stories in the safety of a near-empty library, the Tranquil working it not invested enough to tell anyone, and the few elderly mages residing amongst the books hardly being ones to gossip.

He gets to work in the early afternoon, apologizing for his disappearance, telling everyone he’s ready to continue. Mahanon explains to Josephine and finalizes with Cassandra and promises Varric and Bull that he’ll get to the rifts once he and Vivienne get the preparations ready for Halamshiral, and the small break he had taken earlier in the day helps him get through the rest. But the Circle is cautious to push him, not wanting a repeat of his strike, and softly refuse to give him any work after the moon rises.

It is three days into this new schedule that Josephine figures it out. She pushes the noble to the side in her mind, going through the motions and conversations automatically as she comes to an understanding about why Mahanon has been so... helpful. Always ready to work, dealing with everything he can until he nearly collapses into bed. She figures she needs all the help she can get confronting him. The best help.

She calls for Varric and Cassandra.

Mahanon and Varric’s relationship can only be described as two people trying to pretend that everything is alright while attempting to help others get the happiness they refuse to look for for themselves. Cassandra fits in as a motherly figure, if a mother’s role consists of hitting her children upside the head and groaning every time they do something ridiculous. Despite never admitting to it, Josephine’s fully aware of the times Cassandra has helped members of the Inner Circle, with Cullen’s addiction or templars that target Cole and Vivienne, Dorian’s terrible self-care or the entirety of the Bull’s Chargers inability to take breaks that don’t include drinking. The ambassador does feel the slightest amount of guilt at having another thing to add to her plate, as the three of them corner Mahanon one morning. That changes the minute she sees his room, covered in empty bottles and flasks, and- are those char marks?

“How you doing, Tart?” The Inquisitor turns at the new nickname, curious at seeing three of his closest friends in his doorway. Right, trying out new names once someone asked if Mahanon had a dwarven consort who called him ‘Love.’ He is automatically on edge with the attempts at friendliness, eyes looking between the three.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing yet. Just a couple of friends checking up on you, is all.”

“Is this an intervention?”

“Do you need one?” is Cassandra’s response, one eyebrow raising as she crosses her arms and shifts on her feet.

“Of course not, that’s why I’m curious.”

“We are... concerned, for your wellbeing, Inquisitor.” Josephine begins, entering  
the room and stepping over a few bottles to get closer to him. He edges away, wanting physical distance as much as he wants emotional miles between himself and anyone else. “You only work or hide yourself in here. It isn’t healthy.”

“I go to the library, as well.” It is a weak defense and he knows it, as he watches Cassandra’s gaze soften and Varric give a look of pity. “I just... need a break from people, is all.”

“For weeks?” The question is not meant to be harsh but it still makes Mahanon wince, before he shrugs. Josephine gives a sigh, looking around the room before letting her gaze land on the Inquisitor.

“At least let us have a worker clean here, yes?”

He gives a rushed “No!”, and winces once more, aware of how that sounds. “I... I’ll clean it myself. No servants necessary, really, I don’t want to pull someone away from their work for my own messy habits.”

A pause, before Josephine nods, obliging with his request, “As long as it gets done. It will be good for you, Mahanon. A fresh start.”

Cassandra and Josephine excuse themselves soon after, but Varric lags behind, giving Mahanon one last glance. “If you ever need someone to talk to....”

“I know where to find you.” He agrees, a smile placed on his face to assure the dwarf he would take him up on the offer if he needs to.

“Doesn’t have to be me, either. Just talk to someone, yeah? Keeping things bottled up isn’t good for anyone.”

Mahanon takes his advice to heart, using the day to work and clean well until the moon reaches the sky. When his duties dwindle down and he is essentially kicked from any sort of paperwork, meetings, or training, he heads off, a person in mind and a bottle of wine in hand.

When evening comes around, the occupants of the areas around the library can hear Dorian's laughter echoing through stone walls. Mahanon's shushes follow the sound, trying to calm down the necromancer that finds their conversation to be amusing. Down below, an elvhen apostate can only imagine the blush on Mahanon's cheeks, embarrassment coursing through the Inquisitor's veins as the two of them are told rather loudly to either quiet down or leave the library. It is a surprise when they opt for the latter, their footsteps traveling down the stairs around the rotunda, voices growing louder each step closer they come. By the sound of their mismatched, stumbling footsteps, Solas is most certain that the two are drunk.

"You know, Lavellan, I do not think Bull would mind if you wanted to join us in-"

"No, Dorian!" He cuts his friend off, laughing, and Solas is unable to control the small upturn of his lips at the sound ringing through the air. Soft, melodic, even. He gives the two a nod in greeting as they wander toward the exit, and he expects that to be all the interaction with Pavus that he needs for the day, but luck is not on his side as the altus catches sight of him. His eyes immediately brighten up and he stops Mahanon from leaving, gesturing to Solas.

"Do you wish to tell Solas the awful news? Why you’ve hidden yourself away from the public?” Mahanon rushes to stop him from speaking, less drunk than his companion, but the man continues on despite his protests. "Our dear Inquisitor is secretly a big, bad elf that scares children and kicks mabari pups in his spare time! An absolutely terrifying man!"

“He is just drunk, Solas, don’t mind his rambling-“

“He burns and pillages cities and makes deals with demons on the daily!” Dorian continues, a wide grin decorating his face as he finds amusement in Mahanon’s opinion of his own fate. But his smile falls when he sees Mahanon’s expression, and he gives an exasperated sigh, pulling the Inquisitor into a one-armed hug.

“Come now, Inquisitor, you can hardly kill a man that is trying to kill you, without being upset about it afterward! If you’re evil, then I’m... Well, then I am a big bad Magister from Tevinter, here to woo away the muscle of the Inquisition!”

“Please, Cassandra wouldn’t leave unless Andraste Herself told her to.” Mahanon jokes in response, fantasies of her accepting an arm wrestling match coming to mind as he throws a jab about Bull to his friend. Dorian gives a mocking gasp, an overdramatic look of betrayal on his face. But the expression turns sour, as he begins to feel the consequences of heavy drinking with his boss, and Dorian turns his glance to the stairs.

"I will leave you in Solas' most capable hands, Inquisitor." He gives the elf two pats on the back and nearly pushes him over, before heading back upstairs- to his room, no doubt. There is a moment of panic on the Inquisitor’s face as he watches Dorian go, and he turns to his new company, almost afraid. Solas glances over to Mahanon as he sits himself down on the only chair in the rotunda, crestfallen.

"Is something the matter, Inquisitor?" Solas is gentle in his approach, seeing the vulnerable position that whatever is bothering him has put him in. For a moment, Mahanon seems entirely sober, hard-faced as he gives a shrug and replies.

"I suppose not for you."

The elder of the two pauses, uncertain of how to proceed. Is he accusing Solas of enjoying his pain? He lets confusion show on his face as a way to urge Mahanon to explain, and he does so, starting with a sigh.

"Sera thinks my very existence is ‘a right kick in the groin to everyone else’s religion.’ Hasn’t spoken to me since I woke up.” Not even the wording of his quote could bring a smile to his face, the drunken Inquisitor falling into a worse state than before. Solas has an idea of what Mahanon is talking about, but does not want to press. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to- the tale of the Inquisitor’s soulmark has been held back for so long, and as the moon shines down on Skyhold, the story is started.

“I am not originally a Lavellan.”

Solas travels through the Inquisitor’s childhood with him, hearing of Orlais and the elderly man who took him in, of the threat of slavers and templars those who thought him to be a mage- of being cast out of home after home after home, unable to stay with one clan for long until they too kick him out. None of the towns could be considered home, Mahanon realized halfway through the summary of his life. Although he was raised a city elf, the woods called- and still call- to him. He enjoys the field work of the Inquisition, the wilderness and every moment in nature he can find.

There is a fondness in his voice as he speaks about Keeper Deshanna and her offer to help him, of finally getting his vallaslin and choosing Mythal because She chose him, despite his past and future failings. In the solitude of his own mind, Solas agrees that that sounds much like her, and he offers words of comfort that Mahanon’s ancestors were not all the sort to abandon him.

“Why do you speak to me still, if they are only my gods?” Mahanon questions, after his story is done and the moon is well over them. “Does my very existence not ‘disprove your own deities’?”

“Their existence does not ensure their godhood.” is his simple reply, and once Mahanon figures out that that is all he is being given, he accepts the short argument with a quiet nod. The focus of conversation shifts to a distraction method for the Inquisitor, as the two talk about everything until they cannot think of anything more to talk about. Stories are shared by both parties- the time a child fell out of a tree in front of Solas, mistakes Mahanon made when first attempting to use a bow and daggers, humorous tales of misfortune that end well enough to be both memorable and crowd-pleasing. Tales continue on until there are no more tales to be told, and at that point, the two have fallen into such a fatigued companionship that neither complains about the silence that falls over them. Mahanon watches as Solas turns to his work, still needing to add the finishing touches to the latest scene of his fresco- the fall of Haven, and the renewal of Skyhold. The quiet is not uncomfortable, and they do not stray from their chosen ways of spending time- a mix of meditation and napping, and painting, respectively- other than an occasional check to each other every now and again to ensure that the Inquisitor has not off the chair, nor Solas off the scaffolding. It eventually the apostate sets his brushes down and looks to his companion, wondering vaguely what he could do to move the elf without waking him up- he looked so peaceful, getting sleep that was much needed, and Solas didn’t wish to interrupt. But it doesn’t seem to matter, as he takes a few steps and Mahanon quickly startles awake, eyes falling to where the sound had come from. Solas has the decency to look apologetic.

“Apologies, Inquisitor.”

“N-No, it’s fine, really.” He yawns, rubbing sleep from his eyes and standing. “I need to get ready for the morning, anyways- heading out to close some rifts in Crestwood, anyways.”

“Get ready includes going to a proper bed, yes?”

A pause before, with higher-pitched tone, he replies, “Of course.”

Solas doesn’t mention that he sees Mahanon heading toward the tavern, not to his bed. He wonders for a moment about the procedure he would have to go through to bar the Inquisitor from alcohol, but remembers the look of pain on his face as he told his story. He had pains that Solas couldn’t have even guessed, that he would have never thought about, because of something as simple as one title on his skin. Everyone needs freedom from that which haunts them sometimes, even for just a few hours.

He can’t help himself as an hour passes, having to check and make sure that the Inquisitor has gotten safely to bed. But he does not have to go into the room to hear the creaking of the bed, another man’s grunts and moans too loud to be silenced by the door. The apostate does not linger for long, something twisting in his heart, and he leaves back to his own room.

As the rest of Skyhold sleeps, both the Inquisitor and the Dread Wolf stay awake, two people seeking comfort in strangers, and in silence.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is completely self indulgent not gonna lie

“You need a partner.”

Mahanon coughs, hitting his chest as he tries to clear recently choked-on tea from his lungs. Josephine looks apologetic, setting her own cup down; she had worded the invitation for tea to be partially pleasure, partially business, but her sudden jump into Mahanon’s formal relationship status was... startling, to say the least. “Pardon?”

“You will need to dance with a few nobles that ask for your hand, of course, but Orlais will be expecting you to dance at least once with a partner.”

“Dorian?” is his first decision, knowing the man’s talent and grace. But Josephine shakes her head, with a simple, “With the Iron Bull. We went through all the trouble of ensuring a Tevinter necromancer and a Qunari spy being together would not be a social disaster, already...”

“Cassandra?”

“The Champion’s guest, he received his own invitation three days prior to the Inquisition even requesting an audience.”

“Vivienne?”

“A scandal, she is another’s mistress.”

They continue on down the list of possible partners- “He’s a spirit, Inquisitor, and we cannot trust Cole to be timely.”, “The Commander is a terrible dancer”, “She’s _married_!”- and, after making Josephine blush by pressuring her to tell him who she herself was going with, Mahanon gives a loud sigh of anger.

“Are all of my friends either scandalously dirty or in a relationship?”

“In some cases, they are both.” She gives an amused smile at how bothered he is, and Mahanon groans once more, setting his chin in his hands as his elbows rest on the table.

“You obviously have someone in mind for me.”

She smile, and Mahanon shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the sudden burst of happiness from the ambassador. He feels a shiver run down his spine, and wonders if perhaps he has made a terrible mistake.

* * *

 

“I... feel rather ridiculous, if I am to be honest.”

It is, for Mahanon has to give his ambassador credit, a rather genius plan.

“We look even worse, I bet.” The blonde’s annoyance mirrors his own as she shifts in her uniform, uncomfortable. “Why’ve we gotta fit in? Aren’t all these stuck-uppy nobles more impressed by _not_ fitting in?”

The Orlesians know about the Inquisition’s Inner Circle. They know every member, and specifically, know how many members there are (sans Cole, who prefers to remain in the shadows), and Josephine will sooner light the flames that burned Andraste than admit that the Inner Circle is not united.

“Josephine, dear, for once I have to agree with her. These are ridiculous.” Mahanon laughs at the way Sera’s face contorts, the idea of Vivienne agreeing with her souring her mood worse than the uniform ever could.

“They’re elegant, and show a united front.” It is obvious to see who had given Josephine a hand in planning the outfits, as Cassandra defends her decision, outraged by the insult.

“Perhaps for a Ferelden dog, the blue sash would make for a perfect collar.” is Vivienne’s quick response from her seat off to the side, as she sets down an empty glass and wonders if she will need more to get through the rest of the meeting, ”Darling, we will be the laughingstocks of Orlais. Murdering the Empress ourselves would be less of an outrage.”

The four look to Mahanon and he winces, not sure what to say. His mind flashes back to his childhood, the Orlesian women in dresses, the high necks and masks of the men. “We have enough time to replan, do we not...?”

He sets off a loud reaction, as Josephine calls back in a set of workers, one sent off to retrieve the rest of the Inner Circle who do not appear busy, the others starting to work on gathering suggestions and opinions while finalizing the measurements of all present.

“No dresses.” Cassandra and Sera state in unison, throwing each other looks of vague approval.

“I suggest we wear red, if only because blood is so difficult to get out of white.” is the majority of Dorian’s input, told through a servant who cannot drag the altus away from his research into Corypheus’ identity. Bull expresses his approval of Dorian’s sentiment as he gets measured, the woman blushing the entire time. When she gets to his waist, he looks down at her, a grin on his face,

“Might need a longer cord to measure that.”

Cullen does not seem particularly upset with discarding the first idea, and Leliana’s response is similar, as she suggests either shorter boots or longer, tighter ones. But the Commander has an addition that sets off another long debate, stating bluntly,

“I need to wear armor.”

“Commander, please-“

“That’s actually a rather smart idea. More ceremonial in appearance, of course, but what if we need to fight, Josephine?” Mahanon adds in, tilting his head, “Even a little bit of armor would be useful.”

“And if the Empress herself decides she wishes to dance with the Herald of Andraste, and your armor is making noise the entire time?” She retorts, giving a long sigh.

“Leather, at the very least.” urges Lavellan, and she complies, writing it down in between the notes of ‘less buckles’ and ‘more gold’.

“Varric, Dorian, the neckline is not meant to be that short- My lord, you too?” She groans when she sees the trio, but makes a note down to get a necklace or a higher necked shirt for Lavellan, the bandage around his neck rather out of place. He shifts in the outfit, slightly uncomfortable, and Josephine throws the style immediately upon noticing his discomfort- they can’t have an Inquisitor tugging and shifting in his own clothes.

“Masks?” She asks on the second day, already done with her fourth cup of tea since morning. The sun isn’t even at half point yet.

“We do not need to hide our faces to play the Game well.” is Leliana’s answer, which Josephine writes down as a simple ‘no masks’ on her parchment.

Josephine’s third idea for the Inquisitor received more approval than the first two, but she sees the way he scratches and slouches, and she tsks, shaking her head. She leans her elbows on her desk, giving a sigh as she listens to the sound of Lavellan switching back to his armor in the other room-

That’s it, she thinks, a smile on her face.

When it’s one week until they leave for Halamshiral, the entire Inner Circle is called for a mandatory meeting that they learn, upon arrival, is not about strategy and final announcements, but instead a fashion show for their uniforms.

Cassandra’s outfit is the closest to the original plan, and Mahanon has to begrudgingly admit that it doesn’t look bad on her and Hawke. They are matching, and once the duo gets rid of the ridiculous blue sash that sticks out like- like a Dalish elf in the Inquisition, the uniform looks rather nice.

Vivienne is a complete contrast, a high-slitted red dress with gold accents that, upon closer inspection, have gently been weaved with what Josephine thinks is a completely appropriate waste of magic. It sparkles without any sunlight, and distracts enough to be able to call out Orlesians for staring, in case a distraction is needed. Leliana appreciates the shoes, most of all, heels that threaten to make Vivienne the tallest woman there- ones that she walks in with grace that Josephine can only wish for.

They go down the list- Josephine is scandalized that Varric was somehow able to make a low-neck formal shirt without her knowledge for not only himself, but Bull and Dorian as well; she figures, after a brief moment, that it is enough of a price to pay to ensure that he and Bull actually keep their shirts on. Blackwall and Cullen are dressed rather similarly, simple, yet elegant. Josephine thinks that she may have to pull Solas aside for a moment and change his robes, realizing now that it is rather... plain.

“Do I gotta wear these shoes with it?”

Sera is... a surprise, to admit. She doesn’t expect the outfit to work yet there she is, a red, sleeveless, high-necked top with an exaggeratedly large skirt. Cassandra is about to comment on ‘no dresses’ until Sera easily pulls away the lower half of the dress, revealing her plaidweave pants that make Vivienne gag in disgust and gets a chuckle out of Blackwall.

Inquisitor Lavellan’s outfit is the one Josephine is most proud of, and she beams when she sees him enter the room. The robes are inspired by the one his clan had sent him, a set that Lavellan looked upon in amazement, stating they were only meant for the Keeper of a clan. His long vest, while green and white with his armor, is now replicated by a red and gold copy with slightly more ostentatious shoulder ruffles, but still simplistic when paired with the dark trousers and white, high-necked shirt. His color coordination is perfect with Sera, and they snicker with one another as Mahanon pulls up his trouser leg, revealing a plaidweave holder for one of his daggers.

The only problem with the outfit is that, when Lavellan strains to look up at Bull, a flash of cursive scrawl can be seen on his neck. If the Inquisitor had been taller, it would not have been a problem, but the elf is shorter than the average Orlesian, and it’s a scandal waiting to happen if word of his soulmate gets out farther than it already has.

It seems as if she isn’t the only one who notices, as Sera’s eyes rest on the mark for a moment, before she leans back in her chair and asks if she can “get out of this death trap already?”. One by one they all exit to change back into their original outfits, heading off to their own work and leaving behind Josephine and a few employees to clean up after them. Not that she was complaining, she had asked them to leave their outfits for last minute touching up.

Mahanon is the last to leave, and Josephine is able to pull him to the side, mentioning the slight problem with his uniform. She winces when his expression drops from a helpful, curious smile to a stoic look, and she mentions her few ideas of jewelry, or perhaps a different shirt with a tighter, longer neck.

“It is white, anyways, and who knows how many nobles will try to spill their drinks on you,” she tries to brush her concern off with a joke, but he sees through the attempt, and his expression reveals none of what he is thinking. Mahanon simply gives a tense smile and nods before excusing himself, talking of work that has to be done before they leave. And as he walks out the door, Josephine sighs, watching the way he pulls at the bandages beneath his high-necked shirt.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was so difficult to write lmao

“-And I couldn’t just ignore the druffalo that needed to get home!”

There was a rather birdlike problem, in Solas’ opinion.

"That's adorable." Hawke coos, ruffling the Herald's hair.

An obscenely large birdlike problem, filled with markings and obnoxious displays of physical affection.

Garrett Hawke is flirting with Mahanon in the Herald’s Rest, and Cassandra isn’t stopping him despite the seven words in dark cursive that curl around his muscle, almost surrounded by war paint. But even with Cassandra's tightening grip on her glass and Solas' death glare, Hawke continues to run his fingers through Mahanon's hair and gives a small laugh at whatever joke the Inquisitor has attempted to make. Varric is shifting in his seat beside the Seeker, knowing he is partially responsible, not knowing what to do.

Hawke is a curious man, sharing love without limits as he finds himself settling nicely into Skyhold. Despite his increasing efforts to get to know Cassandra- once past the minor hero worship, she really is a wonderful woman, Hawke can admit that much- the fact that his soulmate is quite literally ten feet away from him doesn’t seem to stop him from resting an arm around Mahanon’s shoulder as his other hand reaches for his nearly empty cup. It doesn’t stop him from pushing back a piece of hair that got into Mahanon’s face, and smiling when the elf turned red.

Solas is sure that the sound he is hearing is Cassandra’s teeth gritting together as Mahanon gets distracted from his own story, eyes turning to meet Hawke’s, mind going blank for a moment.

“I know we are not truly together yet,” Cassandra starts to say to the two men accompanying her, tone half-angry, half-sad, “But really, in public-!”

She could understand the appeal, of course; at times she doubted the romance behind soulmates, knowing that it could be rather constraining as a boy rejects her for not being named ‘Amelia’, as her own love for a man without a soulmate falters when she hears of another named Garrett. It brings worry, that Hawke might never truly love her, feeling only obligation to the Maker, to whatever celestial being put them together.

But she watches as his eyes wander the room and meet hers, and a flicker of guilt crosses Hawke’s face as he pulls his arm away and murmurs something in the Inquisitor’s ear. Lavellan is more subtle, not directly looking at them, not even sending a glance as he only nods and pulls away. He makes a comment that Cassandra is unable to hear, and the world seems to go quiet as all she can focus on is Hawke’s laughter echoing through the tavern.

She turns to those keeping her company, effort needed to drag her eyes away from Hawke as Varric speaks with the newly arrived Dorian and Bull. Cassandra looks to the fifth member at the table, studying Solas as he in turn studies someone in the distance. The same direction as she once looked, and she follows his gaze until she once again lands on the duo. Signs of earlier tension still plague the elf’s face, a slight indentation as he bites his inner cheek, an eyebrow a fraction of a centimeter down.

“Solas?” She asks, pulling him out of his thoughts and watching as he schools his expression into the calm, patient look she always associates him with. He gives a soft “Hm?”, eyes glancing back one last time before focusing on Cassandra completely. All this talk of soulmates, she thinks as her eyes go to the ear that she knows hides a head scar, it must be uncomfortable.

Her mind wanders for a moment, thinking back to Varric’s novels, imagining a story of two people without reachable soulmates finding love in a world out to get them- she shakes her head and focuses back on the real world, knowing Solas is expecting a conversation.

“Are you going with the Inquisitor’s group to Halamshiral?”

“I am, yes.” He nods with his confirmation, and Dorian joins in the conversation with a comment that he heard Cole would be accompanying them, as well. Cassandra would be finishing it up, creating the group of four, and Dorian gave a dramatic groan at that- he had wished to be the fourth, the Inquisitor not being the only restless one in Skyhold; everyone wished to get out and stretch their legs, the thirst for easy battle making all of them hopeful to be in his group. But a group of five of them was uncommon, the Inquisitor always preferred three people only with him; when asked about it, he would always simply tell them, “Buddy system.”

Mahanon had told Josephine that he had to head out one last time before Halamshiral, getting antsy with how long he had been staying in Skyhold; she took that as a sign to form a smaller group to simply head out earlier, and pray that Mahanon’s easily distracted nature found them a side quest. And as the group set out to do just that, Josephine’s prayers were heard, a distraction coming along quite nicely.  
  
The distraction comes in the form of falling into a hole. Mahanon cackles when he falls in, confirming that he is alive and thoroughly enjoying the situation despite falling into muck. There is the sound of footsteps as he adjusts himself, calling out, “There’s something down here!”

Cole is curious, following in after him. Cassandra sighs but follows, aware of the trouble that Mahanon could convince Cole to get into if they were left alone for too long; and following the crowd is Solas, wondering why everything seems familiar as he looks around the newly uncovered stone corridor. Mahanon lights a torch for Cassandra, leading the way as they make it to a longer room of similar stone, one that branches in multiple directions and offers them the chance to make a decision.

“Is this a temple of some sorts?” Cassandra asks, her sword drawn and her gaze wary. She looks upon the corridor, curious, ignoring the murmuring of Cole as he explains- oh, she didn’t know, probably the feelings of the rocks, or something of that nature.

Mahanon is enthralled with the scene, craning his neck up and looking around at the hall they had entered, taking in every crack and nook of the temple. His eyes linger on the wall in front of him, and Solas realizes he has found a rune, decorating the stone and forming words that have been lost to the modern elves. As they continue through the temple, the abandoned nature of it becomes evident. Bones decorate the ground, reminders that there were once elves here, dying and trapped. Body parts sit atop plates held by statues, and Mahanon is entirely too curious, willingly triggering attacks as he plucked them out of their resting spots. They had yet to find a reason for the body parts, but had gotten a collection of them alongside a key to a door unknown.

“Any idea who this could be to, Solas?” Mahanon turns over his shoulder and Solas has to pause a moment, lost in his thoughts and not exactly listening to the question. The water and stale air distracts him, and he runs the past few seconds over in his mind before clearing his throat, offering his thoughts,

“The decor suggests it was a temple to Dirthamen, though its time period, I am not able to confirm.” He breaks eye contact and looks around, soaking in bookshelves and veils, broken altars and podiums. Cassandra calls out for him, believing she has found something as she gestures to writing on the wall- similar to the one Mahanon had found in handwriting, but not in meaning. As he admits that he knows little of what it means, the lie easy on his tongue, he is stopped of any further conversation by Cole, standing a small distance away.

“Shaking, scowling, _who has woken us up?”_ There’s a surprised shout and the sound of a blade hitting bone a distance away, when the trio realizes that Mahanon had gone off on his own. They rush to meet back up with him, finding him in a small chamber as he battles a few skeletons, one hand holding an object they are unable to distinguish from this distance as the other swings a dagger to attack. They leap in quickly and defeat the creatures with little trouble, and Cassandra is quick to judge the Inquisitor, chastising him for going off alone. He is only half listening, curious about what he has found, holding it up to examine. It looks like a head, upon further investigation- a strange mixture of flesh and stone, and he calls out for Cole, asking if it was a person’s or simply a statue.

“It is filled with secrets that it cannot help but be sorry about.” is his response, and it seems to suffice as Mahanon tucks it into his pack, ready to move on. They come across similar body parts in their exploration, all of them getting a small quip from Cole- “Whispers, secrets that should not be told” - and Cassandra is unsure how to respond when she realizes that Mahanon is carrying a collection of body parts in his pack without a care in the world.

“Are you not… concerned, about what these could be for?” She asks, watching as Mahanon holds an eye up to the Veilfire, head tilted to the side.

“It probably has to do with the altar in the main room.” He states it as if it is not something to be concerned about, placing the eyes in his pack and standing, dusting off the dirt that had gotten onto his trousers from where he sat. At the look she gives him, he offers a question, “The longer we spend on this, the less time we have to spend in Orlais.”

Something connects between the two of them, a mutual hatred for Orlesians, perhaps, and Cassandra does not question him as he collects the hands two rooms down, as he asks her to bash into a wall because it sounds hollow on the other side, as he and Cole walk side by side, Mahanon appreciating the small comments the spirit makes about everything. Solas hangs in the back and she joins him, not wanting to interrupt as Mahanon’s voice echoes through the temple, “And what about these, Cole?”

“How do you feel about this?” She asks, and Solas is surprised, turning to her. He thinks for a moment about what he knows of Cassandra and figures it is just an attempt at gauging the risks involved in the Inquisitor’s course of actions, and answers,

“Are you asking how I feel about us participating in a ritual in an abandoned temple to one of the Dalish’s Gods?” She smiles at the sarcasm dripping off of his tongue, and nods. “Well, it is certainly better than Orlais.”

“Look!” Mahanon calls out, pointing over the railings, “We’re right where we started!”

Indeed it seemed they were, Solas thinks as he recognizes the platforms and statue from earlier in the day. Cassandra is too slow in her attempt to ask the Inquisitor to relax, watching helplessly as he jumps over the railing and lands in a squat, taking a moment to balance himself before standing. Solas is thankfully quick enough to stop Cole from doing similar, instead asking him to simply walk down the stairs with Cassandra and he, and Cole complies quietly.

“Worry makes his heart jump every timehe does that, but one look at his smile calms him down.”

Well, almost quietly.

Solas’ heart twists at the disappointed look Mahanon has when everything is said and done, a mixture of an abomination and a priest killed, and the four of them leaving the temple and entering the cool air of the night. No allies, no information, just a ritual reawaken someone that had to be killed soon afterward- a waste, although entertaining at the time. The four of them decide that it is too late to seek out an Inquisition camp, settling into one of their own with Cole taking first watch (they assume, as he is no where to be found). The Inquisitor sits beside the fire, but he is pulled out of his thoughts as Cassandra sits down close to him, armor off as she stretches her legs and soaks in the warmth of the flames.

“We need Maryden here.” Mahanon states suddenly, not at all bothered by the way Cassandra and Solas look to him, amused.

“The minstrel?”

“There’s no good entertainment in Orlais.”

Cassandra seems like she wants to argue, an internal requirement to defend Leliana even when she isn’t present. “They aren’t bad-“

“They’re hardly amazing, either!” He protests, but the smile on his face shows he is not that invested in the argument aspect of their conversation. “There was one I remember, right outside the Alienage-“  
  
“Wait, what?”

“Hm?” He looks up, head tilted and confused about her own confusion. She looks embarrassed for a moment, before stuttering out,

“I... thought you were Dalish.”

“Oh, I am.” He’s dismissive with his tone, wavering her embarrassment away. “I stayed with my clan for ten years and then grew up in an alienage for- Creators, twelve? I think? Before joining Clan Lavellan."

He can see her doing the math in her head, taking his age into account and asking, “So you have only been a Lavellan for four years?”

Mahanon gave an hum of confirmation, leaning back to lay down rather than waste energy trying to sit up. Cassandra looks to Solas, curious to see the apostate’s reaction to this new news, and surprised to see that he is not interested in the slightest- he knew, she assumes. Did everyone know except her? She voices her question and Mahanon replies,  
  
“Only Solas and Cole knew, really. Oh, and Dorian. Probably Bull, because he’s Bull. And Leliana, because, y’know, spy. She probably told Josephine to prepare her for any difficulties that might bring politically?” After a moment’s pause the Inquisitor settles on, “Cullen doesn’t know, for sure.”

“Oh, wonderful,” she drawls, rolling her eyes, “Everyone except me and Cullen knew.”

“It never came up!” Mahanon defends, laughing at the look she sends. She seems to pause for a moment, deciding her next course of action before hesitantly asking, 

“What took you to Orlais?”

The comfortable teasing is replaced by a tension that fills the air, and Mahanon’s emotions are shut away quickly, eyes making him look like his mind is a million miles away. His hand goes up to his neck, rubbing the front of it absentmindedly as he stands and turns away. He is already heading in the direction they had last seen Cole when he states quietly,

“I’ll take second watch.”

Solas does not see him for the rest of the night.


End file.
